


Ninety

by Emilys_List



Category: 30 Rock, Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 22:01:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emilys_List/pseuds/Emilys_List
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The intersection of funny people isn't all that funny</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ninety

**Author's Note:**

  * For [warriorpoet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/warriorpoet/gifts).



> Disclaimer: If you recognize a character, odds are that they belong to either Tina Fey or Aaron Sorkin (or Lorne Michaels or NBC). Or, for that matter, David Mamet (long story). If you recognize a person, they belong to themselves and not to me.
> 
> Oh, also, there is an unexplainable illusion to The Way We Were.
> 
> A/N: Dear Warriorpoet, Thank you for requesting both 30 Rock and Studio 60. By that alone, I fell a tiny bit in love with you. Then I visited your LJ profile page. We like the same exact things. All of this gave me the confidence to write a fic I think you will like, because it’s a fic I’m so excited to write. Thank you again - it’s my pleasure to pen this. Er, key this.
> 
> To set the mood for the first part, look at [this](http://crushingkrisis.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/fey.jpg) and [this](http://26.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_kw8apo1WaA1qzmvhdo1_500.jpg).

During her last contract negotiation (which took place via webcam - Jack in his office, Liz in a noisy Starbucks in Bayonne, per Jack’s order), it was agreed that she would staff Tracy during talk show appearances. As much as she loved getting thrown out of Tavis Smiley’s studio, this was certainly a duty she could live without. Especially when it included a cross-country trip with Tracy for his appearance on Conan’s new show.

Tracy ingests purple pills prescribed by Dr. Spaceman and promptly passes out, shouting non-sequitors in his delirium from time to time. When he comes back to consciousness, he thinks Grizz is Angela Lansbury.

z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z

She leaves her new office and its paint fumes in search of snacks. At the vending machine, she selects a candy bar and is quick to anger when it gets stuck. She shakes the machine, and tries her best to snake her hand up the vent, but it reminds her too much of a nature program she saw recently about baby elephants born in zoos, so she withdraws, totally frustrated and disgusted.

“Hey, let me help you with that,” calls from behind her. She straightens up and turns around to find Conan O’Brien standing behind her. She stares at her Keds then looks up, smiling.

“Thank you. It got stuck.”

He shakes and shakes, but the candy bar remains lodged. Finally he punches the glass with a primal scream, causing Liz to recoil. He reaches in through the broken pane and hands her her treat, and she’s torn between freaking out and being turned on.

z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z

Worse than being on a private plane with a crazy-on-drugs Tracy Jordan is encountering an always-crazy Conan O’Brien. She awkwardly hugs him outside of Tracy’s dressing room and they exchange pleasantries until they can no longer do so and stare at each other too long.

z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z

She’s not surprised to see him in her office, but she didn’t expect him to have an acoustic guitar strapped to his person. He strides in, hands in the air as if surrendering. “I know you’re not sure if you want to give us a shot and make this permanent, but,” and here he pauses, fumbling for a pick in his pocket. He clears his throat and begins singing “Let My Love Open the Door” with way much more confidence than one should.

Pete passes by, his eyebrows quirked, his face curious, but he keeps on walking when he sees the look of horrific happiness on Liz’s face.

When Conan finishes, she doesn’t applaud or say anything, but they make out against her closed office door for 10 minutes. She keeps sighing contentedly into his mouth.

z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z

It doesn’t take them too long to tear into each other.

"So you're dating a stewardess."

"Pilot."

"And is his name Mike Dexter?"

"Jeez, one time, Conan! Let it go."

"My wife can't make any noise when we’re making love because I'm so afraid of what's going to come out of her mouth."

"And you're going to blame me for that? Really?"

z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z

Liz finds out about Liza. The most shocking thing is that two women are actually attracted to him.

“I don’t get what the big deal is.”

She rolls her eyes. "Really, dude? You're going to try and be that guy? You can't be. You're a redheaded nerd who loves The Cure."

"And has a TV show!" He shoots back.

"That comes in last place in its time slot! And you're up against infomercials about home hair removal machines."

"How do you know th-"

"Look. It's either her or me." He tries to hold her but she squirms away. "You have one day. No. You have three-quarters of a day. 18 hours. I will hear from you in 18 hours." She lifts her head high and, picking her clothes off the floor, exits with as much dignity as is imaginable.

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He yanks her into an empty dressing room when they both begin to get hysterical and for a second they’re in the dark together, and he can hear her weird heavy breathing. He fumbles for the light switch and stares at her, silent.

“Look - we’ve both moved on. You married Liza, had kids, and I’m with a super foxy pilot. Win-win. Everyone’s happy.”

“I’m not always happy,” he says wistfully, looking away and up. “Sometimes I miss you, Elizabeth.”

She can’t help it. She has a small, vulnerable spot in her heart for this lovable mess. She reaches up to stroke his bangs and he grabs her hand, pulling it down to his heart. They hug, and for a brief moment they both shut their eyes. But they pull apart, mostly because he has a nascent erection.

“Gross!” She exclaims.

She starts to leave and he calls after her. “Elizabeth, wait! I can explain! I took some Cialis yesterday, and it still - it’s uncontrollable! I can’t control my penis!”

The door slams closed.

z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z

As they’re making plans to attend the next Star Wars convention, he tells her he has something to say. He paces and runs his hand through his hair. “I stopped seeing Liza. But then she called, and we got together and had White Russians, and - I’m sorry, I like her. I think I might love her.”

She narrows her eyes, angry and frustrated and feeling betrayed. She gets to her feet. “I can’t believe you sat with me as we made travel plans. We talked about Tatooine for 20 minutes. You couldn’t have mentioned this before?”

He shrugs. “It was a stimulating conversation.” He stumbles backwards when she throws a VHS copy of The Empire Strikes Back at his stomach.

“What do you want to do?” She yells emphatically. “What do you want?”

He looks to the ground. “I need someone who can support me. Who can be a wife and mother. You and I are too alike. We’re obsessed with work. I need someone who clocks out.”

If she wasn’t so pissed she’d be crying. “You’re a hypocrite, Conan Christopher O’Brien, and I won’t ever forget this.” She quickly dresses for the winter outside.

“I’ll miss you,” he says to the window, gazing out like a sea captain's widow.

She scoffs and walks out.

z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z z

She leaves the dressing room in a huff, her shoulders bouncing like a muppet, and bumps right into Matt and Danny.

"Liz!" Danny shouts, uncharacteristically enthusiastic. "How are you?"

"Ignore him. He's high." Matt sweeps in for a hug.

"We're at T-minus four hours before Jordan and I take off for our cruise on the Danube. Just me, my woman, and the Blue Danube."

"And fifty to sixty vexing senior citizen couples." Matt pinches Liz's cheek.

She rubs at the irritated skin. "I'm surprised you nerds ever spend time apart. I figured Matt joined you and Jordan in the bedroom."

They share a look. "Liz, weren't you and Conan a thing once?" Matt asks, failing to seem genuinely inquisitive.

"Yeah, did I read that on Gawker?" Danny asks, frowning, suddenly much more somber.

She fixes them with an icy stare. "Gentleman, good day. See you at the People's Choice Awards." She slinks out, weighing swiping Tracy's meds or thinking about what Oprah might do with such a blorching day. Instead she drinks a huge coffee from the commissary and eats a banana split sundae, Liz Lemon style.

+

When it comes to Matt and Danny, one is either a suite person or a bed person. Everyone knows that when they go on location they bunk up. It helps Danny's daily stresses, and Matt's neurosis, to be close during shooting. What is disputed is whether or not they share a suite, or a suite and a bed. When Harriet comes to visit, she and Matt stay together and Danny gives them enough space as if he's seen a tie on the doorknob. If Jordan could get away from work and Rebecca, Matt would extend the same courtesy.

When Harry leaves, the bed people say that Danny quietly moves his clothes back into the closet in their room.

Outwardly, Matt and Danny are suite people.

It's 6:30 AM on a January morning in Boston. "You wanted this project so you could murder me, didn't you," Danny mutters, shivering in his parka that isn't quite cutting it.

Matt can't hear him, so taken is he with the snow. "Don't you miss this?" He asks thoughtfully, staring up into the trees and dark-light sky.

"No, I miss the feeling of blood coursing freely through my veins," he snaps. "Suzanne, come in, please," he says into his radio.

"Sometimes you forget I'm not your P.A. anymore," answers back.

"I'm still your boss."

A pregnant pause. "I'm outside of Mariska's trailer. She wants me to check the costume before she comes out."

"Yeah, we actually have a whole costume staff-"

"She wanted a woman producer's opinion. What do you-"

"Just get it done."

"I will. See you in a few."

He hears the knock and puts his radio down, reviewing his notes, until Matt predictably catches his attention. "Sweetheart, what are you doing?” Danny calls out. “Not catching snowflakes with your tongue, I hope?"

Matt joins Danny under the tent housing camera equipment. "Buttercup, you don't know how to have fun." He rubs Danny's knee. "The shoot is going great."

"I know, but there’s frost on the lens! How do people live like this?" They watch Mariska and Jennifer amble onto set, cloaked in down parkas over their period costumes. "I hate you," Danny mutters to Matt, jiggling his leg and reviewing his shooting schedule that's covered in marginalia.

They take dinner in their encampment at the Four Seasons each night. They keep Kosher on the Sabbath. As Matt likes to explain it, “We try everything to keep a shitstorm from encroaching on a shoot. We’ll fast during the day if it’s Ramadan.” Comments like this always draw fire from Matt’s usual enemies, Harriet, and never Danny.

Danny sprawls out on the couch, looking through the dailies on his laptop. “You know, I had my reservations about Franco, but I want to remove my reservations, effective immediately. He’s doing very subtle, good work.”

Matt drops his notes. “Oh, you mean that my instincts were right? Fuck, we’re going to have to call the Times and Guardian and everyone. Headline: Matt Albie was right about something.” He goes back to his notes.

Danny peers over his screen. “Please. Stop it. Your positivity and enthusiasm are just too much for me right now.”

“You were harshing my mellow earlier! You’re only jolly now that we’re inside. I’m uninterested, Francophile.”

Danny snorts. “Excellent.” He smiles and puts his laptop away, pulling out his phone. “Suzanne,” he barks. “We’re done for the night. Did you look at - I know. He’s great.” They wax poetic for a minute about James and Danny hangs up. “Sometimes I forget about that pillow crap.”

Matt’s head pops up. “Kimiko? God, I loved that story. I had a Google alert set up.” He goes back into his notes and Danny watches him for a minute.

“I’ve been thinking. That scene we talked about. I want you to write a draft.”

Matt wrinkles his nose. “Yeah, I’m not here to write erotica for you.”

Danny sinks into a chair across the table from Matt. “It’s not about watching Anna and Claire have sex. It’s about the creation of something intangible between two people. I’m not sure if we should include it, but I know we should shoot it.”

“It’s - completely - no. Dan, it’s the whole point of the Boston marriage concept. There’s a line you don’t cross, it’s murky, we just don’t know. And if I write that, and if we shoot that, then we know. We know that they-”

“Fuck,” Danny finishes.

Matt itches his neck. “Right. Exactly.”

“As we go along, I feel like we’re missing something. Sure, we know that Anna and Claire love each other, but the connection isn’t as it needs to be. And I’m not sure if it’s something that could be represented by dialogue alone.”

“You need action,” Matt says, lapsing into his Michael Keaton/Batman voice. He puts his notes away and looks at Danny.

“It’s not me,” he replies tensely. “It’s the entire movie-going public. But please, I encourage you to make poor decisions.”

Matt grins. He stands and passes behind Danny, running his fingers over his shoulder. “Okay. I’ll draft it and we can argue about it some more.”

Danny gets to his feet. “Terrific.” He follows Matt down the hall. “I can’t believe how easy you are. I was sure that you’d be much more difficult.”

“You know me,” Matt says. “Easy.” They enter the bedroom and shut the door.

Behind closed doors they are bed people.

/end.


End file.
